


A Fine Frenzy

by theskywasblue



Category: Ouran High School Host Club
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reunions, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They clutch at the permanence of what they are when they are together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Frenzy

What they don’t tell you in the tourism brochures, what you can never tell by watching all those falsely romantic movies, is that Paris smells...awful. It’s beautiful to observe from the air, or when passing through by train, but to actually walk down the street is suffocating.

From his seat at the window of the cafe, however, Kyoya thinks it looks almost liveable. The air indoors smells largely of cheap cigarettes, the floral bouquets on the tabletop and expensive coffee. People wander by outside the window, slow and glamorous, as if they have no other place to be than right there at that moment. Watching them causes a tiny bubble of jealousy to rise in Kyoya’s chest. In a few hours he will be on a plane to Moscow, to yet another meeting with an Otori family client. He has been travelling so much of late that he has moved _past_ the point of jet lag and into some kind of permanent haze.

“You should see the Eiffel Tower at night,” Tamaki says, “it’s really wonderful. If you have time.”

Kyoya glances at his watch, “I have to be at the airport in...four hours.”

“Oh,” Tamaki’s smile falters a little and he stirs his coffee with a tiny silver spoon. The foam on top once held a pattern in the shape of a rose. The china of the cup is slightly yellow and there is a noticeable crack in the glaze on the side facing Kyoya. “Too bad, I guess. But I’m glad you could at least make time to see me.”

It wasn’t so much a matter of “making time” as knowing that if he missed the chance to see Tamaki in Paris it might be another six months or more before they were even on the same continent again, and as much as it sometimes bothers him to admit, Tamaki has long been Kyoya’s only true _friend_, the only person with whom there is never that voice in the back of Kyoya’s head calculating the sales figures and quasi-political alliances that are made and destroyed with every other word. Though it feels sometimes like everyone else has outgrown them, they clutch at the permanence of what they are when they are together.

They finish their coffee while speaking of inconsequential things, having long reached the point in their friendship where a conversation need not necessarily have any meaning in order to be _meaningful_, then walk the grimy streets back to Tamaki's small apartment.

All of Tamaki's life has been crushed, happily, into two small rooms - a sitting room with over-stuffed red velvet chairs and a baby grand piano, and a bedroom with an enormous brass four-poster bed wrapped in soft cotton and a small antique desk graced with a laptop. It is here that Tamaki does what work his Grandmother -- still alive and with her sharp -taloned fingers wrapped tight around the jewels of the Suoh family -- will allow him, remotely for a few hours every day. Otherwise he has become very much the layabout trust-fund son in every way except that -- as Kyoya has learned through various electronic means -- he earns only a pittiful stipend from his family and otherwise pays the bills by playing piano four nights a week at one of the upscale tourist-trap hotels.

He seems happy however -- displaying all his usual theatricality as he gives Kyoya _"the grand tour"_, finally dropping into the chair by the desk in his perfectly graceful slouch. Kyoya drapes his suit jacket over the bed frame, sits on the edge of the bed, and unable to help feeling awkward in just his shirt sleeves and tries not to run his hand across the rumpled sheets. Beyond the open French doors leading out to the balcony, someone is shouting loudly and classical music is playing on a crackly radio.

"Haruhi set me a letter," Tamaki says, a small, wistful smile turning up the corners of his mouth, "She's studying very hard I think."

"Medicine," Kyoya nods. He hasn't received any letters himself that he knows of, but his ears are always open for news of their little honour student.

"I always knew our little Haru-chan would go farther than any of us," Tamaki rocks his chair back on two legs, lets it sway like that a while. "I thought I could convince her to come here for a while, but she's _much_ too busy."

"I imagine so."

Tamaki settles his chair forward again, "Would you have been jealous?"

A small, involuntary chuckle escapes Kyoya, "Not particularly."

Tamaki has always had this almost obsessive drive to get a rise out of the people around him -- there is no such thing as inappropriate attention to his mind -- and for a moment, Kyoya feels bad for not obliging. The sensation, however, is rather fleeting.

Suddenly, Tamaki stands, steps forward so his knees bump against Kyoya's. His expression is strangely pensive, almost sad, but his blue eyes shine as clearly as ever, and Kyoya thinks it's disappointing that nowhere in the world is there a sky as perfectly blue as Tamaki's eyes.

He has tried for a very long time not to think of those eyes -- and possibly coming to France at all was a mistake, business connections or no, because now he knows he won't be able to stop thinking of them now for another six months or more. Kyoya has never been an idealist -- though he may occasionally paint outside his frame, there is only so much bare wall behind it to work with and after a point you are edging against the ceiling and floor -- but he thinks for the briefest of moments that this was so much easier when they were sixteen.

Then he winds his fingers into the open front of Tamaki's shirt, and pulls him down into a kiss. He tastes like coffee with an undercurrent of something sweet, and kissing him is as familiar as breathing, though it makes Kyoya’s chest hurt like he can’t get quite enough air. Tamaki straddles his thighs and the mattress sags a little beneath their combined weight, causing Kyoya to lean back to avoid being spilled onto the floor. A wash of Tamaki’s sleep-sweating skin trapped within the sheets pours over him, making his head spin; then he hitches up on his elbows, pulling himself backwards until they are both more or less on the bed, then sets to work removing Tamaki’s shirt.

Tamaki removes Kyoya’s glasses with a practiced care, kisses his forehead like neither of them are as rushed or horny as Kyoya suddenly feels. Then Tamaki tips his head to the side like a curious puppy, his playful smile visible even through Kyoya’s hyperopic haze.

“Say you missed me.”

He’s almost teasing -- but not as much as Kyoya would like. This can’t be anything permanent, just as it couldn’t be when they were teenagers -- the scandal of it would have ruined them. Tamaki, as usual, looks right through him.

“Just this once,” his lips find Kyoya’s earlobe, warm and wet, and his teeth pinch just enough to make Kyoya shiver. “Please.”

Kyoya sighs, loops one arm around Tamaki’s shoulder and tangles the fingers of his other hand in the thick, soft hair at the back of Tamaki’s neck, “I missed you, alright?”

Kyoya can feel Tamaki’s confident smirk against the side of his neck, then Tamaki’s hands are unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall open before setting to work on both their pants. Kyoya feels irritated for a moment over the fact that his shirt is Chinese silk and bound to wrinkle irreparably, but then he thinks that even if it does, it will also smell of Tamaki’s skin rubbed against his own, and could be worn under his suit jacket without anyone knowing.

"I hope you're prepared for this, not just making it up as you go along."

"I am _always_ prepared Kyoya," Tamaki drawls. The foreign accent to his Japanese has gotten thicker, Kyoya notices then; although perhaps it's just a case of returning to his natural state.

Tamaki grabs a bottle from somewhere, incomprehensibly labelled. Not that Kyoya would be able to read the label anyhow -- what is the French for "lubricant"? -- but he hopes it's the store-bought variety and not hand lotion or cooking oil. They had improvised with such in the past, but the results were usually messier than Kyoya appreciated and -- he reminds himself grimly -- he has to be on a plane soon; there is little time to change his clothes or even shower before going to the airport if he is going to let himself get distracted like this.

Distraction, at least, is Tamaki's forte. All sorts, but he is particularly distracting with a lubed finger inside his own body, rutting against Kyoya's stomach for friction, enthusiastic in a way only Tamaki can be, completely consumed.

When he begins easing back onto Kyoya's cock his mouth is slack and wet, his pupils blown so wide that the blue is just a ring around them, elusive and beautiful. Kyoya grips his thighs tight, thinking it will bruise but not caring, and forces himself not to buck straight up, not to lose himself in all that tight, tender heat.

Tamaki settles, gasps -- golden eyelashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, and then moves without hesitation, sparing nothing for depth and force, bracing himself with a hand on Kyoya's chest. There's very little finesse there as well, which is a relief that Kyoya tells himself not to reflect on, just as he tells himself not to reflect on the possessive joy that constricts his chest when he puts on hand on the small of Tamaki's back and thinks he can feel himself moving there, deep within the maze of Tamaki's body.

The frantic electricity of those first moments quickly evaporates, and what they are left with, locked together in pleasure, is something languorous and as steady as a heartbeat. Kyoya wraps a loose fist around Tamaki's leaking erection and admires the beautiful simplicity of Tamaki's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with every rise and fall of his hips, then runs his thumb hard over the satin-wetness of Tamaki's tip and down his shaft until he shudders and sobs, inner muscles rippling in ever-intensifying waves as ribbons of come decorate Kyoya's abdomen. He manages to coax Tamaki to rise and settle two or three times more -- shaking hard all the while, like the pleasure is genuinely too much -- then Kyoya is coming, feeling all the heat and pressure collected in a tight knot in the pit of his stomach rushing out of him.

Tamaki kisses him, wet and lazy, groaning as he very reluctantly swings one leg over Kyoya's thighs and sinks to the bed. Kyoya gets up immediately, grabbing his glasses from the bedside and goes to the bathroom to clean the mess off his stomach, irritated by the cooling stickiness. When he comes back into the room Tamaki is on his stomach, arms folded under his head, having already sunk into a deep, satisfied sleep. His skin is flushed and damp, touched softly from the light pouring in off the balcony, his hair tousled in casual disarray, and atop the white sheets he looks like some Victorian painting of Eros on display in the Louvre. Kyoya stands there for a moment in his shirt tails, a renewed heat and tingling in his groin proposing that he might be convinced to stay -- but if he doesn't catch his plane...

_What?_ The voice at the back of his mind asks, _What then?_ A missed business meeting, a lost client -- such a tragedy for a company that already clears millions each quarter, even in a slowed economy. What would be the _true_ harm of a night in Paris with Tamaki, compared to the harm that will be done when Kyoya dresses and leaves?

For a moment Kyoya allows himself to imagine not just one, but many nights in Paris, his thoughts set to the music of a baby grand piano.

Eventually he does dress, does leave, without a note or a farewell, without a parting affection; leaves Tamaki asleep on his cotton-covered bed, touched only by the oily air of Paris and the soft sunlight. Only lovers dream of love, and he and Tamaki are not now, nor have they ever been, anything like that.

On the plane to Moscow Kyoya sinks in his seat, until the collar of his dress shirt slips up against his chin, breathes deep with his eyes closed until sleep steals up on him, and does not dream at all.

-End-


End file.
